


before those hands pulled me from the earth

by malevon



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Being Buried Alive, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, The Buried - Freeform, Whump, canon divergence from ep 166, rated T for some relatively graphic descriptions of injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:33:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24833884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malevon/pseuds/malevon
Summary: the buried tries to reclaim what it was denied.alternately, very literal use of hozier lyrics.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 18
Kudos: 121





	before those hands pulled me from the earth

“There is no light, for Sam is faced away from it, blocking it from his opponent. But even were it bathed in stark illumination, no one could have said for sure where the sticky mud ended and the ragged, bloody faces began.”

The Archivist is sitting on a stone jutting from the fallow ground, his body gaining a brief respite from his constant pilgrimage across the apocalyptic wasteland, but he feels none of it, too lost in the words spilling from his mouth, his eyes glazed over and vacant. His bag rests next to his place of rest, and he doesn’t see it, but it is slowly, slowly like the worms he is describing, being eaten by the soil, sinking, sinking. The dirt is up to his ankles and the Archivist does not notice it. 

The statement continues. 

“A cloying mass of teeth and tears and torn skin as two terrified victims slowly chew through each other over a distant hope that neither would ever be allowed to achieve.”

The Archivist is sinking. The dirt, the worms, the rocks and sediments and bones are rising (or is he falling?) and they are covering him, and all the while, his words continue. The dirt is up to his waist. 

“When it is done, Richard is dead, or quiet enough that it makes no difference, and the tunnel belongs to Sam.”

He goes on and on, and as his body sinks, his lungs become constricted—his words begin to sputter and choke, and the tape recorder in his hand does nothing to help him: it only records as the Buried tries to reclaim that which it was denied. He is not aware of the ground, eating him. He only keeps speaking. 

“The contortions that he undergoes, the bending and the breaking that he subjects his pale wormish body to, is a greater pain than any he thought possible, and the snap and pop of bone and sinew echoes to the surface far above.”

His breaths become shallower and his strings of words less suave and flowing. The earth is pressing against his bones, his Entity unable to heal him as the pressure only grows, constricts, buries the Archivist, and he is now up to his neck. The roots and worms, the more spindly things that occupy the soil, begin to reach and pull at his jaw, his hair, his voice. 

(The tape recorder is lost, long gone. The Eye will not take this statement, but:)

But it will consume the fear that Martin Blackwood feels when he hears, from some meters away, the sudden absence of Jon’s voice, and when the Archivist can no longer speak, when the dirt starts filling his mouth and his lungs, weighing him down like sandbags and he can feel himself _sinking_ , suddenly entirely aware of the pressure all around his body—

In the time spent in the safehouse, the Archivist recounted, individually, each time he was marked by one of the fears. He had struggled to describe the feeling when Mike Crew had stolen the air from him, that feeling of vertigo, of not being able to breathe but never being able to pass out—staying conscious but not feeling like it, not at all.

The Archivist hadn’t known how to describe it besides having to keep himself from reciting Crew’s statement. But it is the opposite of this.

It is the opposite of not being able to move his mouth, the loose soil instantly packing around him, and it is the opposite of the last thing he sees and hears before the earth fully claims him being the one he loves screaming his name, frantically clawing at the earth around him, and then there is only darkness.

He is no longer the Archivist. He is Jon again, and he is afraid. 

Of course, the Buried will not let him die. Despite the very real presence of compacted clay in his skin, his bones, his veins, he is still very much aware, too aware of the familiar feeling of being contorted, bending into ways he should not as the dirt collects around him and _squeezes._

If he closes his eyes (he thinks it’s the only thing he _can_ do), he’ll imagine the safehouse, being surrounded by the comforting, combined weights of blankets and a trusted body, _squeezing—_

Jon had spent days in the Buried. Three, he thinks it was, but it felt like thousands. The time had been easier to pass when Daisy was with him, their fingers touching as much as the Entity would allow, but this is different. In the new, apocalyptic world, where the Entities could run free, without having to rein themselves into a relatively reasonable, tempting mortal form. 

He had spent days in the Buried, but this felt like years, eternity. The clumps of gravel and the granules of sand rubbing, scraping against his face feels like it ages him by thirty, sixty, a hundred and twenty years alone. His bones are breaking more and more by the second and he has to remember to breathe—he _can’t breathe_ — 

_Martin._

The word, the two syllables ring out in his mind, and Jon stills, his squirming and struggling ceasing at once. 

He vaguely remembers climbing out of the coffin, the statements ringing in his ears through the exhausted static that had then occupied his mind. _Someone had to put them there._

_Of course it was Martin. Why hadn’t he known before?_

The soil above him feels like it’s loosening. 

Something touches his hair, and if he could, Jon would scream. So many things have _touched_ him, the Stranger, the Desolation, the Corruption, but the Buried, as far as he’d Known, didn’t deal in touch, but maybe this was new, maybe it was a new facet that he hadn’t Known about, why hadn’t he _Known_ — 

He thinks of Martin again, and how the soil loosening around him isn’t natural, not like the landslide, and he thinks of how the hand in his hair isn’t invasive or malicious, but rubbing, panicking, _digging._

Is it Burying him more? Trying to give him a false sense of hope? What—

The feeling of air hitting his nose and mouth is not unlike coming out of the coffin, Daisy in tow. He is instantly taken over by violent, violent coughs and dry heaves, and the hands around him become more frantic in their movements before hooking under his arms and _pulling._

Jon is yanked from his prison and the Eye instantly begins working on fixing its Archive. Aside from his body’s insistence of removing the dirt from both his lungs and stomach, Jon is vaguely aware of his 22 ribs rejoining, the cracks in his bones sealing themselves as he lays on his side and tries to expel the filth from himself. 

He’s also vaguely aware of a hand on his back, and one that settles on the top of his head, brushing the strands too short to fit in a bun away from his face so as to not rest in his pile of sick. The hands are cold and comforting. 

He is a miserable sack of flesh and bones, convulsing and struggling to breathe, for what feels like eternity. That’s what his life feels like a lot lately. A little collection of eternities. Eternities spent buried, spent vomiting, spent taking statements, spent in the arms of—

_Martin._

He knows he’s been gathered into Martin’s arms, the other man picking him up with no effort at all once his breathing lacks the grainy notes of residue in his trachea. He’s carried away, Martin’s voice coming to him in watery whispers and assurances that he cannot decipher through his exhaustion. 

The air rushing in and out of his lungs against bruised ribs that the Eye couldn’t be bothered to heal and the feeling of the rushed yet gentle lope of the man carrying him gives Jon something to ground himself with, and blessedly, the world is kind enough—perhaps the Eye is kind enough—to grant him a respite in unconsciousness.

  
  
  
  
  


Martin has started a fire.

It’s the first thing Jon sees when he awakes again, the second thing being a wide open sky full of eyes he’d never think he would be so happy to see, and the third is Martin.

He is suddenly acutely aware of the need to be held again. 

He must have made a noise when he realizes this, because Martin’s gaze snaps up from where it was, staring into the flames, up to meet him. He’s by Jon’s side in an instant, his hands hovering over him, unsure of where to settle. 

“J-Jon, are you alright? I mean, I th-think you were, I mean, I thought you were, you were _breathing_ so I figured—I figured you’d be okay if I just, if I just left you alone, I didn’t want to hold you in case—in case there were nightmares, I—“

“Martin,” Jon says to placate him, and his voice comes out raspy, rough, hoarse, like the mornings after he would spend an entire night recording statements in the Archives. He reaches his arms out towards the other man, a very explicit invitation to be held. 

Martin accepts immediately, and Jon realizes that his skin is cold, again. 

“‘M sorry,” he says, whispers into Martin’s chest. “For worrying you.”

Martin shakes his head fervently, not loosening his squeezing grip. It is nothing like the Buried. After a moment, though, he does pull back slightly, looking at Jon in the eyes. “We do need to get you some kind of, I don’t know, cowbell or something,” he says, and Jon can’t help but stifle a laugh, despite everything, but then Martin sobers again. “You’re going deeper into them.”

Jon can’t do anything but nod. He is, and he doesn’t know how to fix that. He mutters another apology, and Martin puts a hand on his cheek. 

“The Buried must hate you,” Jon whispers because he can’t bring himself to speak any louder. “You’ve saved me from it twice now.”

“The Buried and all the other Entities can screw themselves as far as I’m concerned.”

“Martin Blackwood, you are going to get us in some seriously hot water with comments like that.” He turns his head, pressing a soft kiss into the palm of his hand, and Martin leans back in, pressing his cheeks into the crown of Jon’s head.

“They can’t put us in any hotter water than we’re already in, I suppose. I’m not particularly worried.”

 _Why not? You should be. I’m dangerous. This whole place is dangerous. I’m glad it was me and not you. I’m_ — 

All of the comments he wants to make die in his throat in the wake of Martin squeezing him, grounding him, and for the second time in just a short while, Jon allows himself to be buried.

**Author's Note:**

> hello and welcome to my new hyperfixation
> 
> i know there not a lot of dialogue but i hope i got the atmosphere right at least. i really just wanted to hurt jon and have martin save him, and now i made that all of you guys' problem
> 
> thanks for reading, take care of yourselves, black lives matter


End file.
